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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501806">Lazy Sunday</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ena2705/pseuds/Ena2705'>Ena2705</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds Oneshots [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:00:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ena2705/pseuds/Ena2705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sundays were his favourites, he got to spend them with the love of his life.</p><p>Warning: this may hit you in the feels.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maeve Donovan/Spencer Reid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds Oneshots [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lazy Sunday</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So as I wrote this I was listening to Suzanne by Leonard Cohen and Father and Son by Cat Stevens so if you wanna get in the mood for this fic just listen to one of those.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunday mornings were always his favourites, bar the ones when they were on a case. He’d sit on his balcony, metal seat cold on his back and coffee warm in his hands. Sometimes, if he rose early enough, he’d go down to the local bakery and buy two fresh pastries, busying home so they would remain warm. The smile on her face as she woke to find him humming, putting coffee, pastries, and the morning newspaper on a tray. She liked his appartment far more than her own, the smell of old books made it seem more homely. </p><p>They’d sit, each Sunday morning, watching the city wake up and go about it’s day. Sometimes they’d talk, but most of the time they would just sit enjoying one another’s company and the soothing voice of Otis Redding on his record player. He wasn’t a religious man, but Sundays were sacred to him. They brought hope for next week, and promised to leave the horrors of the week before in the past. Sunday were calming, relaxed, and in every way blissful. She’d finish the paper, he’d finish his book, and they’d head back into the bedroom, french doors open and curtains dancing in the breeze. </p><p>Sunday mornings, he’d write to his mom. His good mindset always lent itself to his letter writing, and his penmanship was always neatest when he could take his time, so he knew she would be able to understand his letters best on a Sunday. As he’d sit on the balcony writing, he’d look back into the bedroom and think he was the luckiest man alive. She didn’t know that, of course, but whenever he looked back at her, laid in his bed, he saw the most beautiful woman in the world, and every horror that he had ever seen, every living nightmare he had experienced, faded away, and knew he wanted to marry her. </p><p>Of course, he knew he couldn’t marry her, as the second pastry laid on the plate, the second coffee gone cold, and the newspaper still folded exactly the way he bought it. And when he looked back into the bedroom, she wasn’t really there. No, she had never been there, and the only time he had seen her laid, hair around her head like a halo, was as she lay bleeding to death as his friend held him back. The record he daren’t play for fear of breaking down and crying again stayed in it’s sleeve on his bookshelf. He was still the luckiest man alive though, as he was one of the rare few who had found their soulmate, and those phone calls would always be in his memory.</p>
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